


Falling in Reverse

by SongAboutExiles



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Idiots in Love, M/M, a hint of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles
Summary: This thing had always been so...big, and yet so small. Sweet and spectacular. An intimate howl into the darkness that was always threatening to devour them.





	Falling in Reverse

There was nothing quite like a clear night on the Muntjac. The Fillorian stars were uncountable, spread across the deepest midnight blue in constellations that seemed to deliberately draw the eye into whimsical, or in some cases, terrifying images. 

Eliot wrapped his robe around him tighter against the chill. He'd been sleeping well, for some value of well in this clusterfuck of a situation, when he'd woken abruptly with a hollow in the pit of his stomach. It could only mean one thing - something was wrong with Quentin. When this Quentin Coldwater lodestone had been installed (against his will, thank you very much) he could not say, but it hadn't failed him yet. 

His heart lurched when he saw Quentin leaning over the forward railing, and he hurried his steps, only slowing back to a quieter approach when he saw that Quentin wasn't actually climbing up the rail. It was a near thing. 

"Hey, Q." It was as natural as breathing to wrap his arm around Quentin's thin shoulders, to pull him into the side of his body, and it was just as natural to feel Quentin relax into him. 

"Hi, Eliot. It's a beautiful night." Quentin nuzzled against his shoulder, and Eliot realized that he was only wearing a loose, thin tunic and pants. He doubted Quentin even knew how badly he was shivering, and it prompted Eliot to draw him into a full embrace, wrapping him inside his robe and close to his own body.

"You're going to catch your death. Why didn't you bring a coat?" Eliot kissed the top of Quentin's head, inhaling the scent that had become, over a lifetime, as familiar as his own. God, this sucked, especially when Quentin molded himself to Eliot's frame.

"I didn't think about it. I couldn't sleep, and I thought this would help." Quentin paused for a long moment. "I can't stop thinking about how I've fucked everything up."

"What? That's ridiculous. If you're a fuck-up, so is every last one of us. This stupid quest came with a guidebook that only tells you something after you're done with it." Eliot pulled back to look into Quentin's eyes. "I think we did some things very well."

Again, there was that hint of retreat, there to be read. Eliot didn't want to see it. He wanted to see the same hunger that was in him mirrored there. 

"Yeah, we did, didn't we?" Quentin half-smiled, the corner of his mouth crooking up. 

"I still miss Teddy every damn day." Eliot wasn't in a mood to be light, flippant. This was a good night for being completely transparent. 

"And Arielle." Quentin's smile faded as he remembered the horror of that long, terrible night. The midwife could do nothing as Arielle died trying to give birth to their stillborn daughter. Fucking pre-Industrial society. At the end, it happened so fast that neither he nor Eliot could use magic to stop it. A great gush of blood and then she was just...gone.

"And Arielle," Eliot agreed, hugging Quentin tighter. Quentin had a habit of holding onto him so tightly his ribs ached. "Q...are you ever going to stop pretending?" His voice cracked, just a little, which was mortifying. He couldn't even blame his aching ribs. 

"What do you mean?" Quentin pulled back to look up at Eliot anxiously. 

"Pretending that we weren't lovers for fifty years." Okay, now or never. 

There was that retreat again. "I...I know we were."

"Was it that bad?" Eliot quirked an eyebrow, even while his whole body tensed against Quentin's. 

"No! No, of course not." Quentin couldn't pretend that it was bad, even for a second, because it was so far from bad there weren't words to describe the distance. 

"So...um." Eliot cleared his throat, angry with himself for being so nervous around the one person who knew him on levels even Margo didn't. "Why do you keep...Quentining this?"

"Because I was like your only option, Eliot. Before, we had to...it was me or nobody, and I guess I'm better than nobody." Quentin shrugged awkwardly, his complete lack of self-esteem both patently evident and miserably heart-breaking. 

"Is that what you think?" Eliot turned his head to one side, studying this man like he had for decades. He reached up to run the backs of his fingers over Quentin's cheek, watching his eyes slide half-closed as he leaned in to respond. "That now I have choices, and so obviously I wouldn't choose you?"

"You wouldn't. Why would you?" Quentin's voice crumbled, and Eliot wiped away a tear with his thumb.

"Quentin Coldwater, I choose you. I would choose you a thousand times." Eliot's voice was soft, low, intimate. Truth be told, it terrified him to say, almost as much as it terrified him that he felt that way.

Another thing about Quentin that Eliot found incredibly endearing was how he kissed, like a baby bird at its mother's beak, quick and desperate and hungry. Of course, Eliot wasn't thinking much of anything when Quentin's mouth met his, except maybe 'finally.' Quentin always pulled away just as fast, waiting to see if his kiss was accepted. 

"Oh, Q..." It wasn't just accepted. It was cherished, treasured. And returned. Always returned. Eliot caught Quentin's mouth before he could say anything self-deprecating and sad, willing him to feel the hunger through the press of lips and play of tongues. 

Kissing in the starlight on a flying boat in Fillory? It made Eliot into a hopeless romantic. Doing it with Quentin? Like the biggest lovesick fool in the world. He pulled Quentin flush against his body, a thigh sliding between Quentin's, prompting a low moan into his mouth as he wrapped his robe around them both again to ward off the unwelcome chill. 

When Quentin pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes dark with lust. "El, can...would it be okay if we went back to your cabin? Can we do...this?"

Eliot knew he meant more than just fucking, because yes, of course they could do that. "You mean...be together?"

Quentin nodded, and then got distracted by the long column of Eliot's neck, leaning in to kiss up it to just behind his ear. It drew the expected long groan from Eliot, who was trying to navigate the Quentin minefield half-blind with lust and a raging hard-on. 

"Yeah. Yes, Q. YES." Please. _Please let me love you the way I want to. The way I learned to._

Nothing prepared him for that sudden, brilliant smile. "Then let's go, huh?" 

Eliot answered that smile with one of his own - a rare, purely happy smile that went all the way to his tired eyes. He laced his fingers with Quentin's and led him along the deck and down the stairs to his cabin. Once inside with the door firmly locked, they looked at each other and laughed. 

Eliot shed his robe and Quentin lost the tunic, and they kept staring and laughing at each other until they were both naked. Then, Eliot's laughter fell away, and he looked, really looked, at Quentin. There was always something soul-wrenchingly vulnerable about Quentin naked that made Eliot simultaneously protective and aroused as hell. 

He reached out for Quentin and tugged him gently into his arms again, both gasping when their hard cocks slid together as Eliot bent down to kiss him again. It was an appropriately filthy kiss, sweet and sticky and messy and ended up with Eliot walking Quentin backwards to the bed and gently pushing him down before crawling atop him. 

They didn't even try to stop kissing.

Eliot wanted to drown Quentin in pleasure, to show him just how much he was desired. So much so his head spun with possibilities, until he told himself firmly that this was not the time to get fancy. They'd have all the time this fucked up world allowed them for that. 

He broke the kiss to lave a path down to one of those delicious little nipples, suckling and biting softly until it was hard and aching, and then did the same to the other. Quentin tangled his hands in Eliot's curls and arched his back up, crying out his name softly and spreading his thighs wide so Eliot could fit between them. 

"Fuck, Q...missed the way you taste." And while nipples may be delicious, he could think of even more delights that awaited him due south. He ducked his head down, secretly loving how Quentin didn't even think to move his hands and ended up tugging a bit on his hair as he engulfed Quentin's cock in his eager mouth. 

Quentin's cock was just perfect for sucking, but Eliot would never tell him that. No, Quentin had plenty of insecurities without him adding to them. Instead, he just swallowed Quentin down his throat and suckled nice and hard, bobbing his head to find a rhythm with Quentin's bucking hips. 

He held Quentin down by those slender hips, his big hands curling around them as he sucked, reveling in the sheer rightness of it, the sweetness of Quentin's surrender. It was better than drugs, better than booze - he'd become addicted to this man over the span of a lifetime together. 

Finally, he pulled away and let Quentin's cock slip out of his mouth. "Want me to keep up, or do you wanna come on my cock?" There was no question that Quentin could - Eliot had never been with anyone as insanely responsive. 

"Oh fuck, oh god...wanna come with you filling me up," Quentin gasped, predictably. Eliot grinned and tugged Quentin's hips up till his thighs spread even more, and then he licked a stripe from his balls all the way down to his tight little hole. 

Quentin cussed a fucking blue streak and Eliot dove in, running his tongue over the crinkled flesh to fire up all those nerve endings before pressing gently inside. God, he'd missed this taste, the way this act made Quentin into a broken, desperate thing. His own cock throbbed dully between his legs, pressed to the sheets, and he worked that sweet little hole until it was open and hungry for more. 

When Quentin had actively moved from cussing to begging, Eliot stopped and licked his lips, reaching under the pillow where he kept what passed for lube in Fillory. He crawled back up Quentin's body and submitted with good grace when he was pulled into a desperate embrace. 

"Please, fuck...yes, open me up..." Quentin babbled, and Eliot ate those words up in another kiss as he pressed two slender, slick fingers inside him. 

"Jesus, Q, always so fucking hot and tight, always so ready for me..." he murmured against Quentin's lips as Quentin relaxed for him and let him in. Just this felt like coming home again; Eliot didn't even want to know how amazing it would be when they were actually fucking. Actually, that was a lie - he was dying to know. Aching to know. 

"More...give me more, you know I can take it," Quentin moaned, hips shooting up off the bed when Eliot added another finger and rubbed right up against his sweet spot. "Fuck! God, stop fucking around, El. Want you in me now." Now, now, now, like a demanding child. 

God, but Eliot loved it when he demanded to get fucked. Quentin probably had no idea how bossy he was in the sack, and that was too goddamned adorable for words. Eliot freed his fingers and messily slicked up his cock, pressing their foreheads together as he pushed slowly inside that clenching, scorching heat. 

Once Eliot was, finally, balls-deep inside Quentin again, he had to stop for a long moment to get his raging hunger under control. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Quentin, not that Quentin was some delicate little flower - Eliot just wanted this to be perfect for him. 

He probably shouldn't have worried, because Quentin had gone still, too. Those big, pretty eyes stared up into his, and Quentin raised his hands to card through his hair again. "Hello, handsome," Quentin murmured into the quiet space between them.

"Hi, sweetheart," Eliot responded, and damned if he wasn't about to tear up. This thing had always been so...big, and yet so small. Sweet and spectacular. An intimate howl into the darkness that was always threatening to devour them. 

The raging, blind hunger had fled from them, leaving them seamed together, moving together, staring into each other's eyes like they were finding the answer to life, the universe and everything, and it sure as fuck wasn't 42. No, it was this - the give and take, the tidal motion of two bodies in harmony. It was comfort and joy and heat and laughter and tears. 

Their mouths found each other again, and they kissed around the rhythm they set together. Eliot still had the muscle memory to angle his body to find Quentin's sweet spot, and soon enough their bubble was pierced by raw hunger again.

Quentin clawed at his back and planted his heels in the sheets to rut up hard against Eliot, shaking in his arms, and Eliot knew how close he was. He also knew better than to fist Quentin's cock - it would just distract him and frankly, watching Quentin coming from a good thorough fucking was just too damn perfect. 

Annnd...there it was. Quentin twisted in his arms and cried out sharply as his orgasm raked through him. He always came so damn hard for Eliot, turning himself inside out, and Eliot absolutely could not resist or hold out one moment more. His cry melded with Quentin's as he buried himself deep as he could and just let go. Let himself fall into this crazy, greyed-out liminal space with his best beloved. Where else would he possibly want to be?

He had everything he needed right here in this bed.

They drifted together for long moments, and then Quentin was smoothing his mussed curls back into place and hooking his feet behind Eliot's thighs to hold him inside just a little longer. "Wow."

"Yup. Wow, though...wow doesn't really cover it." Eliot smiled down at Quentin and leaned in for a kiss. 

"We were always really good at this." Quentin was so relaxed, so tired, and yet he was fighting to hold onto the moment.

"This, and a lot more." Like raising a kid and chasing chickens and working day in and day out on the torture mosaic without killing each other. 

"Don't wanna lose you again," Quentin murmured sleepily, protesting muzzily when Eliot finally pulled out and rearranged them so that Quentin was laying in his arms, snugged up close and tight. 

"Never. Or as close to never as this world allows." Because every tomorrow could be their last. 

"Guess I'll have to take it," Quentin agreed, finally giving into his exhaustion between one breath and the next. 

Eliot would have liked to say he fell into an equally deep, rapturous slumber, but he spent the hours staring down at the boy in his arms like the fairies were going to snatch him away.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Sorry about not calling the boy Rupert. I just think it's super-sweet that Quentin named the kid after his dad.  
> 2\. Follow me on Tumblr if you feel so inclined! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/songaboutexiles


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